


He Who Was Not Dead, But Not Alive Either

by Sweety_Mutant



Category: Black Sails
Genre: (flashback), (implied) - Freeform, (in later chapters), Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Episode Related, Fever, Fever Dreams, Hallucinations, Illnesses, M/M, s03x07, s03x08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9135742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/Sweety_Mutant
Summary: The fever brings memories and dreams to Woodes and the line between reality and illusions blur.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> "I am now what you were then, and without you, there would be no me."
> 
> One has sworn to be the end of piracy. The other has sworn to protect it. 
> 
> Considering the fact that Woodes Rogers is basically a twisted version of James McGraw, and how intriguing and full of subtle comments their conversation on the beach was, there must be more than just me who really wants more interactions between the two of them? No?
> 
> Anyway, that's what I'm requesting. Whether the filler wants to make it hatesex or just a character study with one or both of them contemplating the other I don't care, I'm fine with both. I just want more content with the two of them.
> 
> ~~  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Black Sails, and nor am I Anish Kapoor.
> 
> I really hope that this fic fulfills well the prompt. I had a lot of fun working with Woodes. I think he is an underappreciated character in Black Sails, and he needs more fics. So well, I was more than happy to claim this prompt!
> 
> I will try to update the fic twice a week, but as finals are next week, it's not going to be easy. 
> 
> I thank also my dear beta [Mad_Amethyst](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Amethyst)  
> , for her help and support.  
> Enjoy!

Woodes was constantly tired. His body was battling the fever, using all its strength and energy. He should not have fought against that madman now waiting in the dungeons, but was there any other alternative? On the moment, he had had no choice but to fight for his life. It had no longer been for Nassau, or his ideals, or England. It had been about him. He had won, now two days ago, and the illness had not taken long to kick in. Woodes knew the fever had been lurking, circling around him and biding its time. He was just lucky enough to be resistant, or so had he thought. But the injuries had taken their toll on his body, and in one night all strength had left him. He was burning, frozen at the same time, hoping to climb back the nine circles of Hell and survive. Had he a chance? He could no longer walk, he could only hope. Now bed-ridden, the only news he had of the outside world came from the patch of Nassau he could see from his window or from Eleanor. Woodes was grateful. He knew that while he used Eleanor as a crutch to establish his power over Nassau, she could have overthrown him any day. She had not, he was grateful. She loved him? The fever was making him wonder, and he did not have the strength to wonder. She was in charge for the moment, and that was for the better. Whatever the men might say, he trusted her. He was too tired to question that too.

Woodes was so tired, yet falling asleep was difficult. The frontier between sleep and consciousness was thinned down to barely nothing as the fever went on growing. His days were long and dark, full of dreams that were too real to be dreams, and fitful minutes of sleep. Sometimes, the hallucinating dreams went on during Woodes’s sleep, sometimes he did not know any more if the person standing before him was real or not. Sometimes, Eleanor’s worried or annoyed eyes were enough to bring him back. Sometimes he would fight the fever, fight to stay awake, fight to talk and stand. He could do it.

Yet, some other times, the hallucinations facing Woodes were too real. They were here, in this room, they were speaking of memories Woodes remembered leaving, even distorted as they were. With each day passing, the hallucinations were becoming more real, getting closer and closer to Woodes’s bed.

There was one of them.

He was here every day.

Lurking in the shadows, always by Woodes’s side.

 He was not real.

He could not be here, he was too far away.

Yet he was there, Captain James Flint by day, Lieutenant James McGraw by night.

He was there, in the dreams, in the hallucinations, even in Woodes’s thoughts when he was conscious.

He was there, at the beach. He was there, solid, always too close to Woodes. Always coming closer.

At the beginning, Woodes had barely felt the Captain’s presence. When the hallucinations had still been fleeting, and the fever bearable. It all began when worries met memories. The war was coming, Woodes had been its harbinger. It was his burden now…

It should not have gone wrong. Woodes had been ready. He had come prepared, proud, ready to face the dead man.  He had learned things. He had seen, heard oh so many rumours in London. He had come to revere James McGraw and Lord Thomas Hamilton for their mad dream. He had come to wonder what had been their downfall. Woodes had picked up their dream, so many possibilities there. On his way from England to Nassau, he had tried to put two and two together, to look at the big picture. Thomas Hamilton had been a brilliant man, intelligent and powerful in London. James McGraw, his right hand man, who had brought military strategy and his field experience, the perfect counterpoint to Hamilton’s own skills. There was more to them than what he had heard. Some political feuds ran deeper than one imagined, and Woodes himself knew he had stepped right into the serpent’s den when becoming Nassau’s Governor.

He had been ready, cards up his sleeves and sand in his shoes, he had been ready to offer peace and war.

Ten years had passed. Woodes would accept to be called an optimist, but he had hoped to see a glimpse of understanding in Captain Flint’s eyes. Ten years were not so much for dedicated men, but what a fool Woodes had been! He had expected to find a changed man, but the real Flint had been worse than his legend could ever imagine. He had been a ghost emerging from the sea, proud and closed. Ten years were a very long time, when one only has the dark sea and the wind for companions.

For a second, Woodes had wondered if they spoke the same language. He had been ready, he had seen worse. He had lived worse, and had not come back from disgrace to flinch now. He had been ready, but so had been Flint.

At first, Woodes’s recollection of the events of the beach was clear. It was clear enough for him to consciously think, to ponder and imagine what might have happened. Woodes did not even know why he had begun to think about it. Captain Flint was no longer his primary concern, or so Eleanor had said. Yet, Woodes had been so simply outsmarted by the pirates that he could not prevent himself from thinking about his encounter with the Mastermind. Maybe, he was searching for clues, a hidden justification for his failures. It had been easy to think at first, when Woodes had been only injured and tired. He was feeling a little bit weak, like the illness was slowly starting to creep through his wounds, into his blood, into his mind, waking up the fever that had been waiting there.

Then, when the fever began to rise, those memories and this thinking darkened. It was as if the illness had contaminated it too, like thick black ink spreading from his fingers onto a book. The ink, the fever erased the logical pattern, darkening the worrying clouds above the beach, darkening the shadows beneath Captain Flint’s eyes, the shadows that cut his face.

Soon, the hot ink poured itself over Woodes’s eyelids, pushing him back against the bed covers, forcing his eyes closed. He gave in and closed them then, because at first it was easier. Easier to fall asleep and escape from his thoughts and worries. Yet Woodes, in a last glimpse of untainted consciousness, should have known it would not be all right, when the shadows in the room and the shadows behind his mind took the same shape, were he awake or asleep. Some thoughts just did not care about the barrier of sleep, and then the dreams began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! Stay tuned for more ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this new chapter!

Dreams are common vessels for memories. With enough luck, they do not distort the past too much.

Sitting at the table, on the beach, Woodes had seen the rowboat come from afar. He had watched the infamous Captain Flint jump for the boat, tall, the water licking his boots. Woodes had been instantly drawn to him, dread making bitter bile rise in his throat. He had felt the pirate’s eyes on him, not letting him go, but Woodes would not let go either. He had kept his chin up and locked eyes with Captain Flint.

He had been ready to win the war, and the dream remembered this.

When, at last, Flint had reached him, in a few long strides, he had looked down upon Woodes, standing up beside the chair, standing up and waiting. Woodes had been the one to break eye contact. He had gestured for Flint to sit down, had breathed out at the same time.

Flint hat sat down without a word, and they had locked up eyes again. Woodes had held Flint’s glare, thinking, thinking about the speech he had prepared beforehand. Finding the perfect words, thinking, because messing up was not a fucking option.

“Lord Thomas Hamilton.” With each word uttered, Woodes had kept his eyes on Flint. “I didn’t know him. But I understand you did.” Something may have changed in the hard green eyes, something Woodes had not seen. “Miss Guthrie told me you were part of the first effort with Lord Hamilton and Peter Ashe to introduce the pardon to Nassau.” Flint was indeed no ghost, but he had the eyes of a dead man. “As with most things, the men first into the breach bear the heaviest casualties.”

Flint had been listening intently to Woodes. That was something. Woodes had expected… many different things.

“But in the hindsight of victory, they were the ones whose sacrifice made it possible.” But to have Flint’s full attention was nice. “Without Lord Hamilton’s efforts, your efforts,” Flint had broken eye contact, “it’s likely I wouldn’t have been successful in my efforts to finally secure the pardon.” Flint had broken eye contact.

He had looked away, looked at the beach, at Nassau maybe, at the past surely.

“All I have done here, is finish what you began.”

Woodes had tried to capture Flint’s eyes again.  “I am now what you were then.” Had his speech not been convincing enough? No, it had most likely hit the right point. Woodes had gone on then, pressing on, taking advantage. Flint’s eyes had been on him again. “And without you, there would be no me.”

Flint had grinned. Lopsided, who had said this man was dead? He had nodded, but the dream did not remember if his smile had reached his eyes.

“Clever.” Clever. His voice had been like sand to Woodes’s ears. The accent, yes, the English accent. But the sea had claimed that voice.

Woodes had hesitated a second or two, how to interpret this word, this first and only word. It could be the beginning of peace.

“Thank you.”

“So that’s what this is.” Woodes had not expected Flint to answer so soon. He had thought, triumphant too soon, maybe it is going to end well. Maybe, all traces of civilisation had not disappeared from this man’s soul. Maybe he could hope. “We’re all reasonable men, we all want the same thing.” Maybe he could hope. “You offer me a pardon, I accept it, this all ends?”

“Maybe,” had answered Woodes, not letting his tone become too sure of itself. Maybe indeed. “The pardons are on the table.” It had seemed so simple. “No one is being hanged.” There had never been any need for bloodshed. Woodes had hoped Flint could still see this. “No one’s even being tried.” It had been so simple, in the end. “They’ve all been forgiven, just as you wanted.” _Remember?_ “Just as Thomas Hamilton wanted.” _Remember._ Flint had let his gaze drop, looking at the table. Woodes had taken it as a sign of thinking, perhaps not yet yielding, but a good sign. “So what is it that you’re fighting for that I’m not already offering?”

“Thomas Hamilton fought to introduce the pardons to make a point.” Flint’s brow had become creased in a matter of seconds, in a few words. Woodes had heard the pain of the memories, stuck in Flint’s throat. No, this man was no ghost, this man was not dead. “To seek to change England.” Lieutenant James McGraw was not yet dead. “And he was killed for it.”

Woodes had lowered his eyes then. He had known, of course, of the demise and death of Lord Thomas Hamilton. Yet it would not cost him much to pay his respects.

“His wife and I went to Charles Town to argue for the pardons,” he had known… he had heard about this too. “To make peace with England, and she was killed for it.” Woodes had nearly been moved by Flint’s words. “England has shown herself to me.” This man had lost so much, fought so much… “Gnarled and gray… and spiteful of anyone who would find happiness under her rule.” He was close to be a wreck beyond salvation. Yet Woodes had gone on hoping, gone on listening. “I’m through seeking anything from England except her departure from my island.”

And there had been Woodes, hoping like a fool. Hoping he could have talked reasonably. “It was England’s island first.” Ready for peace. “I don’t imagine she’s going to let it go easily.”

He had hoped this half-threat to be clear. He was maybe no pirate captain, but he knew war, and would fight to the bitter end.

“I don’t imagine she would.”

And so had been Flint.

“I see.” Too bad.

“So there we are then.”

_And without you…_

“There we are then.”

_… there would be no me._

Flint had chosen war, Woodes had been ready. All he had to do now was twist his speech in one last attempt at being reasonable or petty.

“What a story you’ll have to spin to your men to turn me into the kind of villain worth losing their lives over.”

“I’ve lived on the other side of those stories.” Flint was not yet dead, but close, close to death, walking hand in hand with her.  Yet Woodes had not seen behind the grin then. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

He had only seen his enemy. “I’m sure you will.” Something inside him had been looking forward to this, and it had felt wrong. “I am reasonable in seeking peace.” It had tasted like darkness. “But if you insist upon making me your villain, I’ll play the part.  So let us assume that, as of this moment, the unqualified pardon is no more. From this moment on, any man participating in the act of high sea piracy will be presumed to be one of your men, and enemy of the state.” From this moment on, war had been declared. “I will hunt him.” _I will hunt you._ “I will catch him.” _I will catch you._ “And I will hang him.” _And I will hang you._ “And while I am aware of your feelings on the subject, I am no backwater magistrate cowering in fear of you. You know where to find me.”

Flint had nodded, and it had been as good as a signature, black ink on an invisible declaration of war. Without a word, he had stood up from the chair, looking down upon Woodes, so tall. Then Flint had swept his eyes one last time over the beach, like a king, an exiled king looking at his long lost property. Woodes, in return, had watched him leave _his_ property. England’s island.

He had been ready to offer peace, he had been ready for war.

He had known all along it would come to this.

The world had become black around Woodes, it had become more real, and he opened his eyes. Captain Flint was here, where he had stood in the dream, a few feet away from Woodes. Water at his feet, waiting for something before he could leave the island.

_His property._

It took some time for Captain Flint to disappear, once Woodes opened his eyes. He had been certain to have seen a shadow looking at him, waiting… waiting to take him away, urging him to fall asleep again. But no. He would not yield. Woodes tried to prop himself up on his elbows. He was stronger than both fever and dreams. He had to be.

Flint had left the island, Woodes had seen him do so with his very eyes. Flint had left the island in his dream, else Woodes would not have woken up. He was certain.

At last, he disappeared, and the room was empty, and the room was dark. Woodes wanted to open the window.

_And without you…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, feel free to leave a kudo or comment if you did! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

_… there would be no me._

The air inside his room was stifling, too hot, yet he was shivering. He had been lucky, his dream a simple memory. He had no aftertaste of blood or darkness in his mouth for the moment, and so Woodes closed his eyes again. He was wishing for a moment of peace, for a servant to come by and give him fresh water.

He heard steps.

Perhaps the servant would open the window too.

The steps were closer now, in the room, yet Woodes had not heard the door.

For a second, he thought that maybe he should not open his eyes yet. It was silly, but the fever was rising again so he had an excuse.

The steps had stopped. The inside of Woodes’s eyelids was dark, shadows twirling behind. Maybe there had been no steps. It could have been a figment of his imagination.

He opened his eyes. Nothing. There was nothing in the room. It was even hotter than before if possible. Beads of sweat were falling in rivulets down Woodes’s face. So hot.

The wood creaked, it creaked, and there again, steps!

“There we are then.”

Woodes instinctively grabbed the bedsheets, startled. There was no one in the room. There was no one in the room and yet the voice, he had heard the voice!

His eyes darted from one dark corner of the room to the over, and the floor creaked in tune. As if a shadow was following wherever his eyes went.

Suddenly, the voice was closer. “There we are then…”

Woodes was as white as the sheets, his skin coloured less by the illness than by fear. He could have felt a breath on him. A breath of death with that voice, that voice that sounded like rolling sand, rough yet distinctively cultured.

Woodes would have told the voice, the shadows and steps to go away, to leave him alone, but he could not find his voice. He could not even close his eyes, he had turned to stone.

And then the door opened.

A gust of fresh air swept through Woodes’s room, and the quiet feet of a servant went in.

“Sir…”

Woodes’s fingers were still clawing at the sheets, his eyes not able to leave the spot where he had heard the voice, where the shadow had been. Yet there was nothing now. Nothing but a frightened servant who tentatively put a jug of water on the bedside table, then walked to the window. “I think I’ll open the curtains a bit. It’s sunny outside, and to see some light won’t harm you, is that all right Sir?”

Woodes did not answer. He could not answer. There, in the back of the room, unseen by the servant, the dark shadow was back. The dark shadow smiled, smiled a dark grin that only Woodes could see. In his ear, “clever…” a whisper.

Sun bathed the room. Thousands rays of sun, urging the shadows away.

“Are you all right Sir?”  The servant had come closer to the bed, and Woodes met her worried gaze. He barely found the strength to nod, he was all right, he was stronger than the fever, whatever form it took. Slowly, oh so slowly, Woodes let go of the white sheet, and let his head sink back in the pillow. His face was wet, his hair drenched in sweat. He nodded again.

The servant filled a glass with water, and made Woodes drink. He was grateful as it washed, for a few seconds, the bitter taste of sickness off his mouth.

“I am going to fetch you something for the fever Sir. Rest.” The servant left the room with those words, and Woodes let his eyes rest on the patch of blue sky he could see outside. Outside… He wanted to walk out in the sun again. Nassau was not the most beautiful city he had seen, it was dirty and full of lice, but to walk outside again… 

In less time than it took Woodes to notice, the blue of the sky became the gray of the sea, and his eyes were closed, reality eaten away by yet another dream.

Captain Flint was already there, facing him, sitting in the chair on the beach. In Woodes’s mind, a well-prepared speech. Flint’s eyes were on him, his brow creased. Woodes would not look away. No matter how many time he did this dream, he would never look away.

“Lord Thomas Hamilton.” He would not look away, and this time, as a reward or a curse, the dream showed him something new. “I didn’t know him. But I understand you did.” A mist clouding the green eyes, a never-forgotten pain. “Miss Guthrie told me you were part of the first effort with Lord Hamilton and Peter Ashe to introduce the pardon to Nassau.” Woodes would have given it all, fame and glory and career, in that moment, to have been there. To catch a glimpse of James McGraw, proud and pure, Lord Hamilton by his side, ready to take over the world, and change it. But now, in front of him, years later, there was a lonely man, a man who had lived for too long, carrying too heavy a burden. “As with most things, the men first into the breach bear the heaviest casualties.” Woodes understood, that this man had never stopped being James McGraw. And this man now listened to him, had his eyes on him, waiting, biding his time.

“But in the hindsight of victory, they were the ones whose sacrifice made it possible.” Woodes knew that in a matter of seconds, McGraw would become Flint again. He did not know what had been the trigger, he wanted to know what it would be. If he lived the conversation again and again, maybe… “Without Lord Hamilton’s efforts, your efforts,” Flint had broken eye contact, “it’s likely I wouldn’t have been successful in my efforts to finally secure the pardon.” Flint had broken eye contact, the words bearing too much meaning, carrying memories not worth the pain.

Flint had looked away, looked at the beach, looked back at the past, at who he had been, at his own dying reflection.

“All I have done here, is finish what you began.”

Woodes had tried to capture Flint’s eyes again with his words. He had wanted to catch one last glimpse of James McGraw. He blinked a grain of sand away, and Flint was gone. He was alone on the beach, there was no one, no row boat, no pirates, not even Woodes’s men. He got up from the chair, and took a few steps in the sand.

The sea was calm, and for the first time, the dream had strayed away from reality. In the sea, Woodes saw the green of James McGraw’s eyes. The sun was hot above, and he was alone on the beach. It should not end so soon. Woodes took a few steps more, the water licking his ankles, the sea-wind on his face. 

“Clever.” Clever, said the voice of the sea-wind.  The disembodied voice that was not here. Woodes looked at the sky, at the sun, the white sun, blinding him.

“Thank you.”

Thank you, for not taking the dream further. Woodes fell in the sea, he fell in a white sea and woke up.

He had been ready to offer peace, he had been ready for war. He had been ready to re-live their confrontation another time, yet something had changed. Things would never be the same from now on.

The first thing Woodes noticed upon waking up was the dark sky. It was night. How long had he slept? Had someone visited him? The door was closed, and there was a bowl filled with yellowish liquid on the bedside table.

For a few seconds, Woodes felt safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, stay tuned for more!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's update time!  
> Enjoy this new chapter! <3

If he had had the strength, Woodes would have left the bed and closed the curtain. It was nice to see the stars, but he would feel safer if the outside world had no way to crawl inside his room.

He was brave, he was no backwater magister cowering in fear, but he was prudent. Yet, in the back of his feverish mind, a voice kept telling Woodes that the real danger was not outside, but here, already present, in the room.

With a weak hand, Woodes reached for the bowl, and took a sip of the herbal tea. It tasted bad, it was cold, but if they said it would help with the fever, if they said it would make him healthy again… he looked forward to be well again. There was a war coming, his war, and Woodes wanted to be fit enough to fight. He would not cower in fear in this city. He was England’s sword arm. He would fight to protect England’s property. He would die fighting if needed.

Woodes closed his eyes for a brief second. To die fighting… to die in the midst of battle, to die a glorious death. It would be a better fate than to rot in this bed. He wished to have his strength back soon, to carry pistol and sword.

It was not so much that he wanted to die, no. Woodes wanted to stay alive as much as the next man, and he did not want to tempt fate. Not that fate would listen… He combed a hand through his hair. The fever was making him think stupid things. There was no fate here. There were only men, their choices and actions. Woodes needed to hold on to these views, even when the fever was at its highest, else it would be too easy to fall prey to panic.

And so, it was logically because of the fever that the room was now colder. It had been uncomfortably hot a few minutes before, yet now Woodes found himself shivering. A cold, cold and dark night. Woodes looked at the stars again and was surprised to see none. He would have sworn that it had been a clear night… He had seen the stars when he had woken up. It was strange… A shiver ran down his spine. A cold and dark night indeed.

Woodes drank some herbal tea again. He did not feel like he would fall asleep again soon, and after a few minutes, the loneliness hit him. During the day, between the servants or Eleanor’s visits, he was alone too, but it was different. The combined noise of the sea, the people, the birds… he was alone but the world was there, just beyond his window. But at night… at night the outside world did not exist anymore. There was only the freezing air, the black, starless sky… Woodes’s skin clammy, his blood burning, his vision blurry… he was alone, gazing into the black void.  

“There we are then…”

No. Not again, this was impossible. Woodes was alone. He was certain of it. He was alone, he had been alone a second ago, yet now he was doubting. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, tried to see something, but nothing could be seen in the pitch-black room.

“You are not real,” and yet it was Woodes’s voice which came up trembling and weak from the fever. Woodes closed his eyes, trying to keep his breathing even. _It is only the fever. Fever brings hallucinations. It is usual. It is only the fever…_

“Without you…” The voice was closer now. It was real. It was real, “… there would be no me.”

He opened his eyes again. In the shadows, facing him, Woodes saw it. He saw _him._ Water at _his_ feet, water leaking from the floor, coming up, up, invading the room. Black water licking _his_ ankles, the smell of salt and sea in the air, poisoning Woodes’s lungs.

 _Him._ Green eyes in the dark, the shaved head, the black endless coat, the black boots swallowed in Black Water.

“What do you want?” _You know where to find me._ Woodes was proud of himself. He had found the strength to talk, he was not yielding.

“I knew where to find you indeed.” For the moment, the shadow had not moved. It was not threatening. Not yet. “Yet you were the one to summon me.” Flint’s voice was clear, echoing through the night. But the words were wrong. Woodes had not…

“No! I did not… you cannot be here.”

Flint took a step closer to Woodes. He was grinning, the same soulless grin than on the beach. The grin that never reached his eyes.

“You wished for death to come. You wished to die fighting…” Flint was coming closer, closer, closer. “You don’t seem ready to fight death though.”

Flint was too close now, “Won’t you fight death, now that it has made its way to you?"  

Images of the confrontation on the beach flashed in Woodes’s mind. Flint, a ghost, coming back from the dead. James McGraw, dead so long ago. Dead before the storm had even taken him. Dead, brought back from beyond by the sea. Flint was not dead, he had never been.

He was Death.

Woodes laughed, a feverish laugh, his skin white, his cheeks red. Death.

Death had come for War, to take War on his pale horse, and take him beyond the black sea.

Death had finally come for him. Flint’s body was barely an inch away from Woodes, his breath cold as ice, his face made of black shadows but with piercing green eyes. So close… An ethereal hand appeared out of the shadows, grabbed Woodes chin, forcing his eyes up.

“Come…” the voice whispered in his ear. Woodes closed his eyes, he could not hold the burning green, the pale green…

The hand released its grip, it was almost caressing now, and it trailed along Woodes’s jawline, then down his neck, down onto his chest, the outstretched palm over his heart. The hand was cold, so cold that Woodes’s heart could have frozen. The cold was burning him alive, his heart thundering in his chest for dear life. Woodes opened his eyes when the pain from the cold, from the heat, became too intense. He saw that in its wake, Death’s hand had left a black trail, colouring Woodes’s vein, darkening his heart.

Now the hand was going further, further down leaving goose bumps on Woodes’s burning skin. It went down, stopping at the edge of his pants, the green eyes burning through Woodes’s eyes.

“Come…”

Woodes nodded. He was powerless, lost in the dark. Breathless. Burning, burning hotter than the fever.

Death withdrew its hand, and in one movement the black silhouette was floating away from the bed, taken away by the water, eaten by the shadows. Yet never once did he broke eye contact, urging Woodes to follow.

Woodes got up from the bed, his legs barely able to carry him. The world was spinning around him, he was on a ship, on a ship cruising through black water during the blackest night. He took a step, another, trying to reach for the shadow of Death. Death, Flint, whoever had touched him…

He heard the voice again, the raspy voice in the shadows, who said “Come.”

And so Woodes followed Flint in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thanks for reading and stay tuned for more!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this new chapter, and thank you for reading!

Woodes woke up to the panicked voices of servants.

He woke up in his bed.

He did not remember much, something about black water, about death… he felt a tightness in his guts. Flint. Flint had been here last night.

Of course, he told nothing. No one would have believed him. He simply asked what had happened, what was the reason for the servant’s panic.

“We found you this morning, Sir, passed out on the floor–”

“Miss Guthrie was worried–”

“You must have tried to get up and fell–”

“You are not yet strong enough to–”

Woodes felt a headache creeping up his brain. He stopped listening, all right, all right, he had understood. The memories were coming back now. He had left his bed to follow Flint… he must have fallen then. He sighed. Had Flint been a hallucination, an image conjured by the fever? It had seemed so real then… the voice, the touch.

Woodes looked at the floor. It was dry, there was no water at all, not traces of wetness. He looked at his chest, yet there were no visible marks. There may have been no visible marks on his skin, yet he still _felt_ the hand, the cold hand of death that had lit a fire inside him. His head hurt. He blinked, tiny stars had appeared in the corner of his vision. He wanted for the servants to leave. He might have passed out, but he felt as if he had not slept for the last month or so.

The illness had taken its toll on him.

“All right. Tell Eleanor I’m okay.” Woodes just wanted to rest now. To have some silence and rest.

Before falling asleep again, he wondered if he would again dream about Flint, if he would for once be at peace. Images of last night flashed before his eyes. The Black Water rising, the green eyes, the pale, pale death. No dream would be worse than this. He closed his eyes, no, it could not be worse. Woodes had some control over his dreams.

The beach, again. The beach always.

This time, Woodes was not waiting for Captain Flint, sitting in the chair. He was standing up where the ocean meets the sand. Clear water licking his boots. He looked at the horizon, his eyes fixed on the dark shadow of the _Walrus_. He could imagine the rowboat leaving the faraway ship, coming closer to the beach. He blinked, the sunrays dancing with the waves blinding him. The beginning of this dream was serene, he was… calm. Relaxed. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that now Black Water would invade the dream. The Black Water was real, dreams were not. In dreams… yes, Woodes had control over his dreams.

The rowboat was now close to him. He could see the silhouettes, and when the rowboat was close enough for the pirates to disembark, he stepped away. He stepped away and waited. The chairs and table on the beach had disappeared. _Peculiar…_

Flint was now barely two feet away from Woodes. He was the same as before, the same than in the real world. No.

Woodes blinked.

Not now, not anymore.

This beach was the only place where he could hope to achieve something. His speech was echoing in his mind, yes, here he could win.

Flint walked to him.

No words were exchanged for a few seconds, yet Woodes would try again, to bargain for peace.

“Lord Thomas Hamilton.”

Flint looked away from Woodes. He looked beyond Woodes’s shoulders, looked at the past. Flint was so much more alive in dreams than in real life…

“I didn’t know him. But I understand you did.”

Flint’s eyes flickered back to Woodes. Time stopped, and Woodes saw, he saw what he had caught a glimpse of before. He saw the roughly shaven hair grow, inch by inch, slowly, until reddish waves were flowing around Flint’s face. Woodes saw the lines around Flint’s eyes disappear, then those around his mouth, until Flint himself… until Woodes saw before him a man he had never met, a man he had never known.

“Lieutenant James McGraw.” The man’s eyes never left Woodes. “I didn’t know him.”

Woodes raised his hand. He did not mean to look threatening, but he wanted to be sure that it was… real. His hand came in contact with James’s chest. Solid, yet there was a tremor underneath. He went on talking, afraid that if he stopped, time would pass again, and James would become Flint again.

 “As with most things, the men first into the breach bear the heaviest casualties.” Underneath Woodes’s hand, the tremor grew.

James nodded. It was barely perceptible, but Woodes saw it. In the nod, he saw the possibility of peace. Behind them, the rowboat disappeared, the picture slowly fading away. Woodes took a step back. There had been contracts and pardons on the table, a way to secure peace. But now, now that they were all alone, what could he do? He would have to take James back to Nassau. The pardons were most likely in Nassau. Woodes extended his hand, and began to walk. James followed behind, and as dream geography would have it, it took them less than a heartbeat’s lapse to be in Nassau, in the fort, in his office.

Closing the door to his office felt strange to Woodes. It was as if the simple noise of the wood had shaken the dream to his very core. There was something final in doing that. Something akin to fate. In the office, James looked lost, arms limp at his side, and Woodes made him sit down in front of his desk while he took his usual spot behind it. He gave James a quill, and pushed in front of him the document. _Peace._

“All I have done here, is finish what you began.”

“I accept it, this all ends?” James’s voice was less raspy, less deep than in the first dreams. Less frightening than the night before. He took the quill and signed the document, black ink glistening on the paper.

“Maybe,” answered Woodes, not letting his tone become too sure of itself. Maybe indeed. “Yes.” It was as simple as that. “No one is being hanged.” There had never been any need for bloodshed. Woodes was happy to see James so reasonable. He had won. “No one’s even being tried.” In the end, he had won. “They’ve all been forgiven, just as you wanted. Just as Thomas Hamilton wanted.” James lifted his eyes from the document. His gaze was almost sad, and he said:

“Thomas Hamilton fought to introduce the pardons to make a point.” His eyes were sad. Yes, very sad, the green of the ocean after the rain. “To seek to change England.” When the rain water was still falling, tinting the ocean a cleared colour. “And he was killed for it.” Woodes did not know what to answer. Did he want to change England?  Had he misjudged the situation? “England has shown herself to me. Gnarled and gray… and spiteful of anyone who would find happiness under her rule.”

Woodes smiled. His hand had again found its way to James’s body, and this time his fingers were resting against his chin.

“No. Let me show you England.”

There, in the blink of an eye, through the contact of skin to skin, Woodes saw the future. A future that would never happen.

He was on a ship. He was on a ship with James. A ship to England. Back to the world, back to civilisation, and James was by his side, supine. He was a token of victory, he had yielded and accepted peace, and Woodes would lead him through the streets of London, lead him before the King and the sun would rise. The sun would shine.

Woodes would show England to James, because England was Magnificient and Victorious and now James was England’s. He had been England’s since Woodes had claimed him, since he had taken him off that beach, off that island, since he had taken him on the ship back to his world.

The vision was gone as quickly as it had been there. James got up from the chair, too quick for Woodes’s eyes to follow him, and flipped the desk over. Black ink poured over the floor. Woodes got up from his own chair. The sky was getting black. James took a step forward, then another one, and soon he cornered Woodes against the wall. They locked eyes, and James’s were paler, greener than ever, and he was towering above Woodes.

“Clever dream.” Flint planted two hands on the wall, on each side of Woodes’s face. “Clever boy hiding in dreams. But I know… where to find you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, feel free to leaves a kudo or comment, they are always appreciated :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter here!  
> Honestly, it was the most difficult to write, because... oh well you will see. It's also the darkest of the fic, beware my hearties, and enjoy.

Woodes opened his eyes, panting. There was a heavy weight on his chest and the room was abnormally cold. It took him a few minutes to calm his breathing, he was soaked with sweat, shivering, his teeth rattling, so cold… How could Flint have invaded his dream? He should have… he should have been safe there.

Woodes closed his eyes. It was only a dream. He tried to form the sentence in his mind, but the fever prevented him from thinking, even simple words. His whole mind was pulsing with pain, boiling, he was too hot inside it was too cold outside. _It is…_ Woodes opened his eyes again. His vision was blurry, it was difficult to see the sky’s colour. The corners of his vision were blackening, as if a thick fog was filling the room.

_It is only… “I know where to find you.”_

Only a dream. “It was only a dream!” Woodes realised too late he had screamed, voice hoarse, into the empty room.

It was indeed only a dream, but the fever was not helping Woodes to make the difference between what was real and what was not. The last dream had been peculiar to say the least. In the darkness of his room, Woodes wanted to believe that the dream had been real, that he had found a way to convince Flint to follow him, to become his past self again. Woodes knew nothing of James McGraw, but he had imagined him more often than not, now that he was close to finish what McGraw had begun. A cold wind slipped under the door. If only Flint had not chosen war.

If only Woodes was not sick! The room became a shade darker. The air thicker.

Maybe Woodes was not as ready for war as he had thought he was. He closed his eyes, they were burning, it hurt to look at the darkness, he breathed out.

Suddenly, two strong hands pinned Woodes to his bed, cold as hell yet burning holes through his sweaty shoulders.

“I told you… I know. Where to find you.” The voice –Flint’s voice, Death’s voice, but not McGraw, no not him, never him– the voice was the cold wind, deadly and cutting, but there was something to it… Something Woodes’s feverish brain could not define… something he could only follow. The voice of Death, coming straight from hell.   

Woodes’s shoulders were painful, so painful where the hands rested, but he stayed eyes closed, because seeing the demon would only make it real. One hand trailed down, going from Woodes’s left shoulder to his throat, from his throat to his chest, resting against his heart, until the beating of his heart became loud, so loud in the room… beating faster, faster as Woodes kept his eyes shut tight. The hand, still burning, began to softly caress Woodes’s chest, a slow motion that the beating of his heart followed, like the eternal tide…

“I came to you Woodes Rogers…” Now, both of Flint’s hands were touching Woodes’s chest, his nails leaving burning trails on the skin, “I came to win the war.”

Woodes shook his head, opening his eyes instinctively. He should not have. He was prisoner now, of two glowing green orbs, pale and deadly, the only source of light in the pitch black room.

“No… no.”

Flint’s breath, too close to Woodes’s face, smelled like the sea. Unpleasant, salty and disgusting, it invaded the room, in tune with the tidal waves of Woodes’s heart… The sea level was rising in the room, the pain making Woodes’s head spin.

“You know you don’t want to win the war…”

His head spinning, he was going to be sick, but he had to answer, to do something. Woodes closed his eyes again. Getting away from Flint’s green, hellish ones was a first step. He swallowed, but his saliva tasted like salt, like thick, black water from the sea. A few tears welled up in his eyes at the taste.

 “It would be easier if you just gave in…” Flint’s voice was almost caring, almost, as his hand went up from Woodes’s chest to caress lightly his jawline.

Wars should not be won this way.

Now, one finger was slowly trailing along Woodes’s bottom lip. His legs convulsed on the mattress. There was a new energy within him, but he could barely feel it, his world engulfed in black, his head swarming with hot black water, salty water, he was sick, the taste of the sea in his mouth, the hands of death clawing at his body, gripping at his chest, ripping his lips away, clawing… Woodes’s hands clawing at the sheets, trying to grab at something, to hold on to something… _hold on to something real. This can’t be, it can’t be, can’t be real, the fever, the fever, he is not here…_

“Clever…” Flint’s voice was closer to Woodes’s ear, “yet you know I am here… you were the one who called for me.”

He could not move. Woodes had no will left, his body could not fight anymore. Slowly, he closed his eyes, there were shadows too behind his lids, shadows in his mind, shadows everywhere. He let the cold breath of death invade his lungs as something licked his lips, scorching the tender flesh away. If the cold in his chest had not frozen his throat, his vocal cords, Woodes would have pathetically whimpered in pain.

In the few seconds that followed, Woodes realised that Flint’s cold hands had found their way under the sheets, roaming over his stomach, a cold wind that froze his muscle, preventing him from moving.

“You wanted to take me…”

One hand was drawing circles over Woodes’s hipbones, almost tenderly, while the other stayed unmoving on his lower belly.

“You wanted to take me to England, to change me…” The hand on his hipbone gripped hard, the short nails sending bolts of pain through Woodes’s whole body, making him squirm. “… Because you are afraid of me.”

The hand was going lower now, lower and Woodes was petrified, frozen in burning ice.

“Afraid of what I can do to you.” Flint’s hand simply rested over Woodes’s genitals, not grabbing, not doing anything, and his other hand went up, touched Woodes’s lids. The cold made him open his eyes at once, and a dark chuckle escaped Flint’s lips, a deep, eerie sound echoing through the room and howling wind.

“You see yourself in me…” Flint now viciously grabbed Woodes’s jaw, hurting him, prying his mouth open with the thumb, his nails digging into his throat. “… And you are afraid… you are terrified.”

Woodes was prisoner of Flint’s eyes again. He wanted to drown in the green, angry and frightening sea he saw in those eyes. To drown would be less painful, less… he was terrified yes. Tears spilled on his face, the salty trails burning his skin, leaving dry cracks in their wake. Flint laughed again.

“Such things I could do to you.”

His hand was now lightly caressing Woodes’s member, sending waves of unwanted warmth through Woodes’s frozen body. Waking him up, and now Flint was kissing him again, still tasting like death, a slow, poisonous death.

“I will burn your city…” Flint bit Woodes’s tongue, drawing blood, hot, boiling and salty blood. “You will watch it all…” It was too hot, but now Woodes could move again, now that his limbs were warm, could he? “… and you will be the last to burn.” Flint licked along his neck, biting where it met the shoulder, a cold bite to counter the heat. “A slow, slow burn.”

Woodes shook his head. It was a barely perceptible movement, Flint could not have seen it, but even that made him sick. He felt the acid rise in his throat, mixing with the black water in his mouth, spilling out of his mouth, onto his jaw, into his hair. Flint went on licking and biting his throat, both his hands now stroking Woodes. It was too hot. Flint’s hands were ablaze, his tongue was burning, cooking the flesh, and Woodes tentatively tried to struggle, a tremor through his body, he wanted the hands to let go, he wanted Flint to leave him alone, to leave him for dead, to stop touching him, to stop torturing him.

“I know England won’t let go of Nassau easily… not as easily as she let go of you.” A dark chuckle. “But don’t you see I’ve already won the war?”

But Flint was not letting go of him, Flint’s hands were getting faster, his whole body lying on top of Woodes, a hot hot blanket choking him.

“You should see…” It was too fast, too hot. “England under me.” Woodes began to arch up. His mind had caught fire, his hands were limp at his side, the fingers twitching helplessly. “Writhing,” now his legs had stopped moving, they were made of stone. His mouth was open, open in a silent scream, a scream drowned in Black Water, “begging…” The waves closed on him. He shut his eyes, his whole body stretched out, hips bucking, before it went limp. “Dying…”

The wind calmed down suddenly. Slowly, the movement of the black waves around Woodes stopped, and the shadow of Flint above did not move anymore. Woodes opened his eyes, tentatively, and somehow the air was lighter. Tiny stars danced in front of his eyes, he was floating on the black water. His eyes fluttered and closed again as he breathed out.

Quietly, the shadows withdrew. Exhausted, Woodes fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and feel free to leave a kudo or comment! Woodes and I would be really happy ;)  
> Stay tuned for more chapters!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry to have kept you waiting, but here is the final chapter!   
> I need also to thank you all for reading it, and for keeping up with me and my sick Woodes.  
> I hope you enjoy the end!

Woodes no longer wanted to dream. He no longer wanted to fight. He was spent.

Dying.

He was dying.

Was he on the beach again? Most probably. He did not care. The world seemed far away, a thin white veil in front of his eyes and ears blurring the picture.

Woodes did not even look up when Flint jumped off the rowboat and walked towards him. He noticed that Flint did not sit down, he could feel his eyes burning holes through him. Did it matter?

A sharp, metallic sound.

Did it matter?

“I came back from the dead, to lay claim to what I am owed.”

Woodes lifted his gaze, his eyes not quite meeting Flint. His lids were heavy. Flint’s clothes were wet, heavy with water. His green eyes steely, a scowl on his brow and water pooling at his feet.

Something was gleaming under the sunlight. Hot, it was beginning to get too hot. A hissing sound. Woodes wanted to close his eyes, could he fall asleep in a dream? Something cold touched his throat.

“I come for Nassau.”

Woodes noticed the length of Flint’s sword, held by a hand that never trembled, the tip at his throat, threatening. They had not yet talked, was it already time for war? He did not have the energy to fight nor to talk.

Flint did not move, as if he was waiting for something. For a few seconds, the dream was frozen.

Woodes wondered what would have happened if Flint had acted this way the first time. No, no, it was illogical. Not that dreams were supposed to be logical, but Woodes had men standing by, and more men would come if they heard shouts… Flint had at most… one or two swordsmen with him? He would not hold on for long. Woodes yawned. His head hurt, his limbs hurt, he felt drained. The tip of Flint’s sword pushed harder against the hollow of his throat, drawing blood.

“The last men to come can bear casualties too.”

Woodes nodded, _yes, Flint was right._ That was what he was, no, a casualty? England had forgotten him, sent him to his death on this damned island… There was no reason to be there, on this beach. If he was to be a casualty, then so be it. Alea jacta est, the war had been declared a long time ago. Woodes was tired. He sighed.

“There’s no use in re-living this all over again.”

“I beg your pardon?” Flint withdrew his blade by a few inches. Woodes did not even look at him. “You called for me. You cannot decide to end it now.”

With a swift movement of his arm, Flint swung his sword at Woodes, the blade barely touching him, but the strength was enough to draw blood. A gash across his face. _Another._ Yet, it was not the pain, nor the attack that made Woodes jump up from the chair.

Black blood.

Black blood. Thick and boiling like Black Water, falling in droplets on the table, burning his face. Falling on his clothes, darkening them. Covering his hand when he brought it to his face. Woodes could not move. Black Water, the sea, inside him.

Flint, on the contrary, was not at all dismayed and, with a powerful kick, threw the table aside. Woodes felt the wood hit him, he fell in the sand, his back hitting the soft, grainy surface. Should he get up?

If Flint was so bent on killing him, should he not… _My men will come for me. They should be defending me…_ His men were not here anymore, nor were Flint’s. They were alone on the beach. Maybe, it should have ended like this the first time.

Maybe, it should have ended like this when it had been real. This beach, this beach was not real. The sea had receded and so had the hills, leaving an infinite land of white hot sand as far as the human eye could see.

“Get the fuck up!” Flint’s voice came from above Woodes’s head. He looked up, at the sky, and saw the black silhouette, even darker as the sun blinded him. Flint was waiting, he would not attack Woodes as long as he was lying on the sand, Woodes knew it. Woodes tried to feel for his sword, it was still at his side, in its sheath, he just had to grab it, to swing it, to fight…

He had said to Flint he would fight, he had said he would wait for him and not cower in fear. He had said so long ago, when fighting had seemed an option, when he had not yet been tired.

Why was he not getting up then?  He looked at Flint, and said, voice unsure:

“It’s not over?” It should have been over. Flint had killed him last night, Death had taken him and won the war. Of that he was sure.

“You called for me. Without you, there would be no me. Without you, there would be no dreams.” Flint took a step forward. “You came to reclaim Nassau, and yet you cannot even stand up to defend her.”

Flint was again pointing his sword at Woodes, threatening, but nothing felt real. Black Water sipped into Woodes’s mouth, urging him to close his eyes and wait for death. Slowly turning him to stone and salt.

“You are taking your time to die, yet you are not even fighting.” Flint raised his sword in the air, and as he lowered it to strike Woodes, the latter rolled on the side, dodging the blow. Woodes did not know why he had dodged. Something within him, his survival instinct maybe, had taken over his mind. Something gleamed in Flint’s eyes, halfway between anger and satisfaction.

There was no turning back now.

_It may be a dream_ , thought Woodes as he scrambled to his feet, but he would not give in so easily. _It’s not over._ He unsheathed his sword, and took a swing in Flint’s direction. Flint dodged too easily. They fought like this for a few minutes. Woodes tried to hit Flint but all his attacks failed. His feet slipped in the sand, he was constantly on the verge of falling down. His head was spinning, the world was spinning, the white sand, the white sun. From time to time, Flint got closer to him, his sword cutting into Woodes’s clothes, piercing skin and flesh. Woodes was bleeding black on the sand, his hair damp, free from the ponytail, falling in front of his eyes.

He should not fight while sick.

Flint laughed, somewhere in front of him. Woodes caught a glimpse of his black clothes, jumped forward but he was too weak, and fell face first in the burning sand. Barely a second later Flint was on him, sword raised in the preparation of a fatal blow. Woodes felt as if he was going to throw up, the taste of salty water overwhelming. Yet, since his survival instinct had kicked in, there was a new fire inside him. Had he not told Flint he was not afraid? Had he not survived each and every time before? He had not fought all his life to die in a dream. His body was burning, dying of a tropical fever, but he would not go on without a fight. He was no backwater magistrate cowering in fear. Gathering all his strength, Woodes reversed their positions. He was panting, he had little to no energy left, but for once he had the upper hand. What could he do now? It should have been easier to deliver the fatal blow, cut his throat, behead him, pierce his heart, his belly, cut him up… Why was he hesitating?

Even pinned beneath Woodes, Flint was grinning. He had dropped his sword, but one of his hands viciously gripped Woodes’s scarf, nearly choking him. Flint’s grin was infuriating. How long had they been fighting? The sun was still high in the sky, hot and white, making Woodes’s head spin. Why was he hesitating? He could end it now. Flint opened his mouth to speak, another insult, another provocation… Woodes did not give him the time to speak. He shouted:

 “It’s. Not. Over yet!” while thrusting his sword downwards, right into Flint’s chest.  Flint’s hand tightened around Woodes’s scarf, then released it, falling limply on Flint’s chest. Red blood splashed on Woodes’s face and clothes, mixing with the Black Water running from his injuries. Red and black pooled on the sand, and for a second Woodes thought that Flint would get up again, strike him again, and that the fight would go on and on and on until Woodes bled to death, filling the beach with Black Water. Woodes closed his eyes, waiting.

But no. Flint did not move, Woodes did not move.

The beach was silent. Deadly silent, and the sun was hot. Woodes was tired. While fighting, he had felt alive, as if he had not been sick anymore. Yet he was tired again. He tentatively touched his forehead. It was not as hot as he had thought it would be… His thoughts were becoming blurry. Were his wounds that serious?

Pinned beneath him, Flint’s body was still and cold. Unmoving. Woodes thought he would have felt something at the sight of his defeated enemy... but he was tired. He opened his eyes, it was difficult, the reflection of the sun on the sand blinding him. He looked at Flint, skin white, eyes open and a glassy green. Death. He had been Death… Woodes fell down, his head on Flint’s chest, and when his face touched the blood soaked black shirt, everything dissolved and Woodes felt himself fall down, down somewhere silent. He was taking his time to die indeed. He closed his eyes and fell.

When Woodes opened his eyes, he was feeling strangely calm. As if he was floating on a calm sea, a tame sea after a storm. He breathed in the clean air. He looked up to see Eleanor smiling at him. She was sitting beside the bed, looking a bit worried. Woodes tentatively smiled. He felt better, but there was something amiss. He was too tired to ask any questions yet though… Eleanor must have guessed it, because she said:

“The doctor told me we nearly lost you to the fever last night.” Her hand in his hair felt good. Soothing. “But you are better this morning.”

_Last night_ … Woodes’s memories were foggy to say the least. The fever must indeed have been at its peak. He remembered dreams, but without details. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, but he did not want to worry Eleanor yet. He gathered what little strength he had to say:

“I… do feel better today.” He knew it was not convincing.

Eleanor smiled again, and said:

“It’s all right. I think the worst is over. You’ll be on your feet soon.” She took his hand in hers, and Woodes began to notice little things around him. Clean sheets, clear sky, crisp air… He closed his eyes and breathed out. He felt better, but was still tired, and as he was falling asleep again, he heard Eleanor’s voice, far away, “you’ll be on your feet soon. We need you. Nassau needs you. It’s not over yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, finished!   
> I really hope you guys liked this chapter, and the whole fic.   
> It was rather difficult to write it, and it was unusual for me, to deal with the same scenes again and again and again, with a rather fragmented and incoherent narration. Yet, I liked writing it, and I absolutely loved working with Woodes.   
> I will write him more often, I promise!  
> Love you all, and don't forget to leave a kudo or comment if you so wish!


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